


Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and Father of One

by daleksanddetectives



Series: Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and Father of One [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Eventual Johnlock, Gen, M/M, Mention of Minor Character Death, Parent!lock, Parentlock, follows canon events, how a study in pink would have gone if sherlock had a son, mention of past drug use, sherlock is a parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleksanddetectives/pseuds/daleksanddetectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson moves in with Sherlock Holmes, only to find that Sherlock has a nine year old son. Parentlock AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter is pretty much a summary of John and Sherlock's first meeting. Things get more interesting next chapter!

“Bit different from my day,” John mutters as Mike shows him into the lab. His eyes flick across the equipment and eventually land on the suited man at the opposite end of the room. He leans heavily on his cane when the man speaks, seemingly ignoring him.

“Mike, could I borrow your phone,” he says, not looking up from his microscope.

Mike’s eyebrows knit together, “and what’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike says, patting his pockets.

“Here,” John says, smiling at the man, “use mine.”

He looks between John and Mike curiously and stands to take it from him, “thank you.”

“This is an old friend of mine,” Mike introduces, “John Watson.”

Sherlock takes John’s phone after sweeping his gaze over both men. He opens it and begins to text, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John looks towards Mike, who grins at him, and then towards the man, “I’m sorry?”

“Which one was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” He repeats.

“I’m sorry, but how did you—”

John is interrupted when a young woman enters the room with a mug of coffee, “ah Molly, coffee, thank you.”

John feels as though the “thank you” was aimed at both him and Molly as his phone is shoved back into his hand.

John tucks the phone into his pocket and watches as Molly leaves the room, obviously offended at Sherlock’s comment about her small mouth.  A sudden “how do you feel about the violin?” interrupts his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, what?”

"I play the violin when I’m thinking,” he explains, “sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flatmates ought to know the worst about each other.”

“Are you? You told him about me?” John says, directed towards Mike.

Mike smirks, “not a word.”

“Then who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did. Told Mike this morning that we must be a difficult pair to find a flatmate for, now here he is, just after lunch with a friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.” He tugs a blue scarf around his neck and smiles sweetly.

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John says.

The man ignores him completely, “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we should be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o clock. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John stands for a second, trying to catalogue the information. Just as the man reaches the door he speaks, “is that it? We’ve only just met, and now we’re going to go look at a flat?”

“Problem?”

John glances towards Mike, “we don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

The man takes a deep breath and reels off a long list of facts about John he couldn’t have possibly known. John stands in awed silence until the man finishes with, “that’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” and goes to open the door. He leans back, “the name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two two one bee Baker Street. Afternoon.” He leaves with a wink and click of his tongue.

John and Mike are left in the lab, “yeah, he’s always like that.” Mike mumbles, as John uncomfortably leans on his cane.


	2. The Flat

When John arrives on Baker Street, precisely on seven, he is greeted by Sherlock Holmes climbing out of a taxi. He knocks on the door of 221 and stands back.

“Mr Holmes,” he says in greeting, holding out his hand.

He smiles, “Sherlock, please.”

“This is a prime spot, must be expensive.”

“Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour or two. Couple of years back her husband was sentenced to death in Florida, I was able to help out.”

John gapes, “you stopped her husband from being executed?”

Sherlock grins lopsidedly, “oh no, I ensured it.”

As if on cue, the door opens and an elderly woman steps out, “Sherlock!” She pulls him into a tight hug and waves them both inside.

Sherlock shows John up the stairs and into the living room of flat b. John nods in approval, “this could be very nice. Very nice, indeed.”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” Sherlock agrees.

They overlap each other;

“so we should get some of this rubbish cleaned up, oh.”

“so I went straight ahead and moved in, oh.”

They stare at each other awkwardly for a beat, until Sherlock coughs and quickly moves to the table, picking up papers and books on his way, “well obviously, I can, um, straighten up a bit.”

As Sherlock moves around the room John looks at the mantle, “that’s a skull.”

“Friend of ours. Well, I say friend.”

“You said that yesterday. “Our” “We”. Who’s we?”

“Ah,” Sherlock starts, removing his scarf, ““We” are my son and I. He will be living here too.”

John nods, “right. You have a son?”

“Yes. His name is Hamish, he’s downstairs with Mrs Hudson right now. She looks after him for me when I work.” Sherlock swallows loudly, “he isn’t a bother. He’s very quiet for a nine year old. He will happily sit in one place all day and read, so he won’t get in your way at all. Rarely has tantrums. Very shy.”

“That’s fine,” John says, “I would have preferred to know earlier, but that’s completely fine with me.”

Sherlock nods and smiles, “so, it’s okay that he’ll live here too?”

“Of course, I have no problems with children.”

“Oh, speaking of,” Sherlock mumbles, cocking his head towards the small footsteps quickly making their way up the stairs.

“Dad, look!” A small boy with a mess of mousey brown hair and a lopsided smile reminiscent of Sherlock’s bursts through the door, “Mrs Hudson let me have a cupca--”

The boy comes to an abrupt stop when he spots John. He carefully steps around the boxes on the floor and stands behind Sherlock’s leg, holding it tightly with one arm. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John beats him to it by carefully leaning on his cane and crouching down, holding a hand out.

“Hi. My name’s John,” he smiles, “I’m gonna be living here with you and your dad, I’ll help him to pay the rent.”

Hamish looks up at Sherlock curiously, who gives him an almost imperceptible nod. The boy nervously licks his lips and steps forward to shake John’s hand.

“I’m Hamish Scott Holmes. I’m nine and a half years old.”

“Hamish? All the _best_ people are called Hamish,” John winks, “it’s my middle name.”

Hamish grins and turns his head back to Sherlock, “I like him. He can live with us.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks, “excellent. Now, why don’t you go help Mrs Hudson make some tea? Don’t eat too many cakes.”

Hamish nods, his hair falling over his eyes, and sprints to the door. He stops and points at John, commanding, “stay.”

Another smile creeps onto John’s face and he nods. Obviously satisfactory to Hamish, the boy grins and runs down the stairs. John stands with a groan, resting his hand on his leg.

A moment later, Hamish reappears with another cupcake, Mrs Hudson close behind carrying a tray of mugs and biscuits.

“There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing another,” she says, smiling at them both.

“Of course we’ll be needing another,” John replies looking at Sherlock, who smirks at him.

“Oh don’t worry, dear. There’s all sorts ‘round here. Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.”

John looks at Sherlock again, who has elected to ignore John in favour of rifling through a box.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says disapprovingly, ushering Hamish into the kitchen, “the mess you’ve made.”

Sherlock looks at her wide eyed as Hamish giggles and settles into a chair.

John throws himself into a big armchair and pats his leg, “I looked you up on the internet last night.”

Sherlock smirks, “anything interesting?”

“Found your website, the science of deduction?”

“What did you think?”

John answers him with a _look_.

“Dad’s really clever,” Hamish says, walking into the living room, clinging to the tray of biscuits, “he solves crimes and helps Scotland Yard and always outsmarts the bad guys.”

“I’m a consulting detective.” Sherlock corrects, aimed towards John, “well, I can read your military career in your face, and your brother’s drinking habits in your phone.”

“How?”

Sherlock smirks and turns. He takes a biscuit from Hamish’s plate, who pulls it closer to his chest and grumbles.

“What about these suicides, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson comes back into the room carrying a newspaper, “three exactly the same.”

“No,” Sherlock whispers, stepping up to the window, “four. There’s been a fourth.”

Loud footsteps make their way up the staircase, the owner seemingly taking them two at a time. A grey haired man enters the room looking slightly flustered.

“Where?” Sherlock demands.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. This one left a note. Will you come?”

Sherlock debates this for a second, “not in the police car, I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you,” the man says, leaving the room almost as quickly as he entered.

Once he’s gone, a grin breaks out on Sherlock’s face, “yes! Brilliant!” He picks up his coat and ruffles Hamish’s hair.

“Be good, Hamish. Mrs Hudson, I’ll probably be late, might need some food,” Sherlock says joyously, “John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!” He leaves the room with a flourish of long coat and curly hair.

“Look at him, dashing about,” Mrs Hudson tuts, “my husband was just the same. You rest that leg and I’ll get you that cuppa. Hamish, could you go downstairs and get the Digestives for me?”

Hamish nods and runs down the stairs after Sherlock, though not quite as dramatically.

John sits for a moment, before suddenly bursting out with “damn my leg!”

Mrs Hudson jumps and turns, “I understand, dear. I’ve got a hip.”

When Mrs Hudson leaves, John picks up the newspaper she’d left. He reads the headline, “Investigation into third suicide”.

Suddenly, “you’re a doctor,” comes from the doorway.

John looks up, startled.

“You’re an army doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Any good? Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?”

“Yes. Enough for a lifetime.”

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh God, yes.”

John leaps from his seat with as much grace as he can with his cane and follows Sherlock’s billowing coat down to the street and into a taxi. 


	3. Pink

Sherlock concentrates on his phone in the taxi until he feels John’s eyes burning into the side of his head. He finishes his text and shoves his phone into his pocket.

“Okay, you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah, where are we going?”

“Crime scene, next.”

“Who are you? A consulting detective? Is Hamish your biological son or?” John leaves the last question open.

“What do you think I am?”

“I’d say private detective, but the police don’t go to private detectives. And consulting? The police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock turns to glare at John, “when I met you yesterday I told you everything about your military career and family life. You were surprised.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I don’t know, I saw.”

Sherlock reels off his deductions about John’s career, limp, phone and brother, who sits in awe, his mouth hanging slightly open.

“That… was amazing.” John finally says.

Sherlock smiles, “that’s not what people normally say.”

John looks at his curiously, “what do they normally say?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock says proudly.

John laughs, “and what about Hamish?”

Sherlock’s smile falls slightly, “yes, he is my biological son. Although, I suppose you already knew that. He is very similar to me. You’re curious about his mother?”

John decides to not beat around the bush, “yes.”

“She died.” Sherlock states matter of factly, “Hamish was only a few months old, but I made sure he understood what happened. I would rather he knew the truth than some fairy tale.”

John stays silent, allowing for Sherlock to continue.

“It was a car accident, nothing we nor the paramedics could do,” he smiles sadly, “Mrs Hudson is like a grandmother to him, and he enjoys the company of a few members of my family. He seems to like you well enough, though, which is unusual.”

John smiles, “how does he feel about your… work?”

“He knows a lot of things for a child of his age. I don’t let him see the more violent crime scenes, but he seems to enjoy it. Thinks I’m some sort of superhero, likes to help and try to solve it before I can” Sherlock says fondly, “he’s intelligent. Does very well at school, but he’s too much like me in the social aspect.”

“What do you mean?”

“I  _mean_ , he doesn’t have many friends, John. I worry about him sometimes.” Sherlock's eyes drift off, looking out the window of the taxi. John decides to leave it at that, thinking that Sherlock would tell him more in his own time, if the flatshare works out of course.

Eventually, Sherlock speaks again, “so did I get anything wrong? About you?”

John clears his throat, “you were right, Harry and I have never got on, Clara and Harry split up three months ago, they’re getting a divorce, and Harry is a drinker. But, Harry is short for Harriet.”

Sherlock freezes, “Harry is your sister.  _Sister_ ,” he hisses “there’s always something.”

The taxi stops and John sighs, looking through the window at the flashing police cars, “what am I doing here?”

Sherlock ignores him, clambering out of the taxi and throwing a few notes at the driver. He walks straight up to a female police officer, who frowns at the sight of him.

“Hello, freak,” she greets, folding her arms tightly against her chest, “why are you here?”

“I was invited,” he bites.

“Why.”

“I think Detective Inspector Lestrade wants me to take a look.”

She makes an angry noise in the back of her throat, “well, you know what I think, don’t you?”

“Always Sally,” Sherlock smiles, “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

John smirks when Sally splutters. He stays close behind Sherlock, but is stopped from crossing the police tape by Sally holding her hand out, “er, who’s this?”

“Colleague of mine,  _Doctor_  John Watson.”

“How do  _you_  get a colleague?”

Sherlock grunts and continues, “John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend.”

John rolls his eyes, “would it be better if I just wait—“

“No.” Sherlock lifts the tape and motions for John to step under. Sally sighs as John follows instruction. She walks away, speaking into her radio.

“Freak’s here, bringing him in.”

A man dressed in a light blue coverall appears, who Sherlock greets as Anderson, a fake smile plastered on both their faces, “here we are again.”

The man named Anderson pulls a face, “it’s a crime scene, I don’t want it contaminated. Are clear on that?”

“Quite clear,” Sherlock says, his smile growing.

“Traded the brat in for a fully grown one, have we?” Anderson sneers, looking John up and down.

Sherlock’s smile falls, “is your wife away for long?”

“Don’t even pretend you worked that out,” Anderson scoffs, “someone told you that.”

“Your deodorant told me that. It’s for men!”

“Well, of course it’s for men _. I’m_  wearing it.”

“So is Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock deadpans. He sniffs the air, “oh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?”

An almost deathly silence falls over them for a second, before Anderson spits, “look, whatever you’re trying to imply here-“

“I’m not implying anything. I’m sure Sally came over for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

John tries to hide his smile, staying close to Sherlock as he strides into the house.

They make their way through the house to find Lestrade. They find him putting on a coverall and grumbling to himself. When he spots the pair he stares at John, “who’s this?”

“He’s with me,” Sherlock mumbles, picking up a pair of gloves.

“Yeah, but who is he?” Lestrade says, seemingly forgetting that John is stood just behind him.

“I said he’s with me,” Sherlock growls.

John awkwardly zips up his coverall, “aren’t you going to put one on?”

Sherlock elects to ignore him again, asking Lestrade, “where are we then?”

Lestrade motions to the stairs, “top floor.” He leads them into a small, dingy room, “I can give you two minutes. Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. Some kids found her.”

They are met by a woman laid in the centre of the room.

Awkwardly stood in the doorway the trio stand in silence.

“Shut up,” Sherlock says eventually.

John and Lestrade look up confused, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking, it was annoying.”

Lestrade loudly breathes out through his nose while Sherlock begins waltzing around the room, eyes flying everywhere. As he gets closer he spots the phrase “Rache” messily carved into the wooden floor. Sherlock crouches over the woman in pink, muttering an unintelligible stream of deductions under his breath.

Anderson’s voice comes from the doorway, “She’s German. ’Rache’, German for revenge.”

Sherlock marches to the door typing on his phone, “yes, thank you for your input.” He slams the door in Anderson’s face.

“So she’s German?” Lestrade says.

“No, but she is from out of town,” Sherlock continues typing on his phone, “Cardiff. Obvious.”

John and Lestrade look at Sherlock with a look of confusion. Rather than explain, Sherlock says, “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

“What?”

Lestrade beings to argue, reminding Sherlock of his team of professionals, “I’m breaking every rule letting you in here.”

“Because you need me,” Sherlock smirks.

Lestrade sighs, “yes, I do.” John looks to him when Sherlock repeats his question, “oh, do as you please. Help yourself.” He leaves the room, commanding his team to stay out while John and Sherlock work.

Sherlock quickly turns back to Jennifer Wilson and crouches again, looking to John to join him. John grunts as he crouches, careful of his leg and cane.

Once he’s settled, he stares at Sherlock, “what am I doing here?”

“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock whispers. John grumbles something about a woman lying dead and how he believed he would only be helping Sherlock to pay the rent, but Sherlock answers with a grin, “yes, but this is more fun.”

Lestrade returns as John begins examining the body, “asphyxiation,” John says after a pause, “probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. No alcohol, drugs? A seizure?” Sherlock looks across to him, “no, one of the suicides?”

“You’ve had your two minutes,” Lestrade interrupts, “I need everything you’ve got.”

Sherlock begins reeling off his deductions about the woman, her age, hometown, work and such. He finishes with, “it’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“That’s brilliant,” John smiles, “sorry.”

Sherlock looks at him, confused, “it’s obvious though, isn’t it?”

“Not to me.”

“Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.”

John and Lestrade look slightly offended. Sherlock continues his weather deductions, mentioning the suitcase again.

“That’s fantastic!”

“Do you know you do that out loud?” John quietly apologises, but Sherlock interrupts, “no, it’s fine.” Sherlock explains this from the moisture left on her coat from a bad storm. Her umbrella is unused, meaning it must have been windy. He holds out his phone showing a weather report, “Cardiff.”

Lestrade folds his arms, “suitcase? Are you just making this up?”

“She was writing Rachel.” When Lestrade gives him a look, Sherlock puts a mocking tone in his voice, “oh no, she was writing an angry note in German. Of course she was writing Rachel. Now, where is her suitcase? What have you done with it?”

“There wasn’t a suitcase. There was never a case.”

Sherlock stands and storms from the small room onto the landing, he leans over the bannister and addresses the police officers, “suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?”

Lestrade follows him, “Sherlock, there was never any case.”

“They take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow themselves. Even your lot couldn’t miss these signs,” Sherlock bites, continuing down the stairs, “it’s murder, all of them. Not sure how, but these are killings. Serial killings,” he claps his hands together, “oh a serial killer, I love those.”

Lestrade and John look down to where Sherlock has almost reached the bottom of the spiralling staircase, “yeah, and?” Lestrade shouts.

“ _Where is her case_? Did she eat it? Someone took her case,” Sherlock’s face suddenly goes vacant, “the killer drove here,” he murmurs, “in a car. She never got to the hotel, not with her hair looking like that.” He pauses again, “oh. Oh! Serial killers are always hard, and this one just made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Lestrade yells.

“Find Jennifer Wilson’s friend and family, find Rachel!”

“Wait, what mistake?”

“Pink!” Sherlock shouts, leaping down the remaining stairs and through the door, leaving John amongst the remaining police officers.


	4. A Mysterious Man

John awkwardly takes the same path down the stairs as Sherlock had done moments ago, being nudged out of the way by various officers passing him and at one point almost being shoved over the bannister. When he reaches the bottom floor, he strips off his coverall and makes his way outside, where Sally is still standing.

“He’s gone,” she says when she spots him looking around; “he just took off. He does that.”

“Will he be coming back?”

Sally frowns, “didn’t look like it.”

“Right,” John nods slowly and looks around again, “um, do you know where I could get a cab from here? It’s just, my leg.”

Sally lifts the tape and smiles, “try the main road.”

John mumbles his thanks and ducks underneath. Sally speaks again from behind him, “you’re not his friend. He doesn’t have _friends_.” John suddenly remembers what he’d said about Hamish, _too much like me in the social aspect_ , “here’s a little bit of advice,” Sally continues, “stay away from that guy. Do you know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything, he likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off. And when he brings the kid with him?” She scoffs. She goes on, “one day it won’t be enough. One day there’s gonna be a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one who put it there. He’s a psychopath, psychopaths get bored.”

Sally is interrupted by Lestrade calling her from the house.

“Coming,” she turns back to John, “stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

John sighs and purses his lips. He turns and starts down the street to the main road. A red telephone box rings as a walks past. He looks at it for a moment, before ignoring it and continuing.

John limps down the main road, shouting for a taxi. Each one that passes doesn’t so much as slow down for him. He passes another ringing phone box, which he ignores. Eventually he comes to a third, which he grumbles at and then goes to pick up.

“Hello?”

A male voice comes through the receiver; _there is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?_

John swallows loudly, “who is this? Who’s speaking?”

 _Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?_ The voice continues, _now watch._

John watches the camera swivel, now pointing away from him.

_And the right building, do you see it? And finally, at the top of the building on the right._

These cameras swivel away from John too, “how are you doing this?”

 _Get into the car, Doctor Watson,_ the voice says with an air of finality as a sleek black car pulls up to the curb, _I would make some kind of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you._

The dialling noise echoes through the phone as John watches a suited man step out of the car and open the door. He puts the receiver back onto its hook and thinks, sod it. He climbs into the back of the car, a second after closing the door it smoothly re-enters the traffic. John looks across to the woman sitting beside him. She’s deeply engrossed in her Blackberry phone, and seems to be ignoring John.

He coughs, “hello.”

“Hi,” she smiles and looks up for a second before going back to her phone.

John waits to see if she is going to say anything else. When she doesn’t he asks, “what’s your name then?”

“Um,” she holds the vowel for a moment, “Anthea.”

“Is that your real name?”

She looks at him with a sly smirk, “no.”

John nods and turns his head to look through the window, watching London pass by.

They reach an old warehouse, where John spots an ominous figure waiting for them. The car draws up and he’s told to get out. The figure turns out to be a tall man in a rather expensive suit, leaning on an umbrella.

“Have a seat John,” he points to a dining chair set in front of him with his umbrella.

John ignores him, “you know, I have a phone. It’s all very clever, but, you could just phone me. On my phone.”

“When avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet,” the man says. He lifts his umbrella and points it into the corners of the warehouse, “hence this place. Now, your leg must be hurting you _, sit down_.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

The man looks John up and down, “you don’t seem very afraid, Doctor Watson”

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John deadpans.

The man laughs, “ah yes, the bravery of the soldier.” His smile falls, “bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think. What is your connection to Sherlock and Hamish Holmes?”

“None, I met them yesterday.”

“Yes, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with them and now you’re solving crimes with the elder. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

John pulls a face, “who are you? A friend?”

“You’ve met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I’m an interested party. The closest thing Sherlock Holmes is able to have as a friend.” When John looks at him blankly, he continues, “an enemy. If you were to ask him, he would probably say arch-enemy. And he wonders where Hamish gets his over-active imagination from.”

John’s phone bleeps from his pocket. Without breaking eye contact his hand quickly ducks into his pocket and pulls it out. He glances at the screen; _Baker Street. Come at once in convenient. SH_

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” the man says, leaning a few centimetres forward to catch a glimpse of the screen.

“No… not at all,” John says, putting his phone away.

“Now, do you wish to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

John frowns, “excuse me, but I don’t think that’s really any of your business.”

“If you do move into, um,” the man pulls out a small leather bound book, “two hundred and twenty one bee Baker Street, I’d be happy to… ease your way.”

“Why? What do you want in exchange?”

“Information. Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with, just tell me what they’re up to.”

John can feel himself getting to the end of his patience, “why?”

“I worry about them, John. Constantly. I would prefer my concern goes unmentioned for various reasons, we have a, what you might call, difficult relationship.”

John’s phone bleeps again, he doesn’t hesitate to pull it out and check it; _If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

He purses his lips, “no.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure,” the man laughs again, “you’re very loyal, very quickly.” He brings the book out from his pocket again, “trust issues, it says here.”

John swallows, “what’s that?”

“Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people? You don’t seem the type to make friends easily.”

“Are we done?” John snaps.

“You tell me.” John stares for a moment. Eventually he turns and begins limping back to the car. Halfway, the man’s voice stops him, “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. Your left hand tells me that’s not going to happen.”

John stops dead in his tracks and shakes his head. He turns quickly back to the man and scowls.

“Show me,” he smiles, nodding at John’s hands.

John lifts his left hand and holds it in front of him. When the man raises his own hand, John pulls away, “don’t.”

The man pulls a face and picks up John’s hand, “remarkable. Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops, and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You’ve seen it already. You have an intermittent tremor in your hand, your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. Fire her; she’s got it the wrong way round. You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.” He leans closer and whispers, “welcome back.”

The man leaves, swinging his umbrella, “time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.”

John’s phone bleeps once more; _Could be dangerous. SH_

Anthea appears behind him, still on her phone, “I’m to take you home. Address?”

John lifts his steady hand and smiles, “Baker Street. Two two one bee, Baker Street. But first can we stop off somewhere first?”

John has the car stop off at his old flat, where all of his belongings still remain. He goes straight for the drawer of his desk and pulls out his laptop and paperwork to reveal a gun. He checks the safety and bullets, and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans, covering it up with his cream jumper.

The car draws up outside Baker Street. Just as John’s climbing out, he turns to Anthea, “hey, I don’t suppose you get much free time?”

She laughs, “oh yeah, lots.”

He watches her for a reaction or realisation.

“Bye,” she says sarcastically, now clearly bored of the situation.

John closes the door behind him and watches the car smoothly glide away from the curb and into the night.

He walks up to the door of 221 and taps the door knocker a few times. Mrs Hudson opens the door and ushers him in, “he’s just upstairs, dear.”

John smiles and carefully begins to climb the stairs.


	5. Her Case

John reaches the top of the stairs to find Sherlock lying on the sofa, stretched from armrest to armrest. He has an arm raised, his other hand pressing down on his wrist. He snaps his eyes open and lets out a loud breath when John enters the living room.

“Nicotine patch,” he says, “helps me think, impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days.”

“And smoking’s bad for you,” a small voice pipes up from the kitchen. Hamish puts the book he had been reading onto the kitchen table, “hi John.”

“Bad news for brainwork,” Sherlock continues as if no one had spoken.

John nods and smiles at Hamish before turning back to Sherlock, “good news for breathing.”

“Breathing? Breathing’s boring,” Sherlock scoffs, rolling off the sofa into a sitting position.

“You weren’t saying that when that gangster was pulling on your scarf,” Hamish remarks, his legs swinging underneath his chair.

Sherlock tuts and tugs at the corner of one of the patches.

John stands in front of Sherlock, “is that _three_ patches?”

“It’s a three patch problem.”

John hears Hamish’s scoff. John throws him a confused look, “well? You asked to come; I’m assuming it was important?”

Sherlock is quiet for a second, his eyes having slipped closed again, “oh! Of course, may I borrow your phone?”

“I was at the other side of London,” John grunts.

“Yes, but there’s always the risk that someone will recognise my number from the website and Hamish refuses to let me use his.” There’s a bark of a laugh from the kitchen. “I tried shouting Mrs Hudson but she doesn’t seem to be in.”

John rolls his eyes and throws a withering look towards Hamish, _how do you put up with this?_ as he hands over his phone.

“So, is this about the case?”

“Her case,” Sherlock mumbles, “the case.” He pauses for a moment, “yes, obviously. The murderer took her case. Big mistake,” he looks thoughtful for a second, “I’m going to have to risk it. I need you to send a text to the number on the desk.” He holds out the phone.

“You brought me here to send a text?” John says.

“Yes, the number on the desk,” Sherlock waves the phone in the air.

John rolls his shoulders, irritated, and takes the phone from him.

“And why couldn’t Hamish do it?”

“Not exactly the best at spelling in his class,” An annoyed ‘Hey!’ echoes through, “I mean, the recipient would be able to tell a nine year old sent the text. He prefers the sciences anyway.”

Hamish grumbles again and falls quiet, going back to his book.

John wanders to the window before going to the table; he flips open the phone and murmurs, “just met a friend of yours.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, “a friend?”

“Sorry, an enemy.”

“Which one?” Sherlock says this with such an air of disinterest John’s head whips round.

He coughs, “your arch-enemy, according to him.”

Sherlock looks across and frowns, “he offered you money to spy on me,” he states, “Did you take it?”

“No,” John replies, slightly scandalised.

“Pity, we could have split the fee. Now, he is not my problem right now. The number on the desk.” Sherlock rests his hands under his chin in a prayer position and closes his eyes again, “these words exactly.”

John picks up the small slip of paper, _Jennifer Wilson_ _07_ #########.

“That’s the dead woman, Sherlock.”

“Yes, that’s not important. The number and my words, now. _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out._ ” John types the message out carefully as Sherlock continues, “ _twenty two Northumberland Street. Please come.”_

He pauses, “you blacked out?”

“What? No. No!” Sherlock leaps up and straight over the coffee table, standing on the paperwork spread across it. He makes a beeline for the chair next to Hamish, picking up a bright pink suitcase. He throws himself into an angular armchair and places the case in front of himself, flipping open the lid.

“That’s the pink lady’s case,” John steps back, watching Sherlock carefully.

“Yes, obviously. Perhaps I should mention, _I didn’t kill her_.”

Hamish’s ears perk up, “I told you he’s clever. Found that all by yourself didn’t you dad?”

Sherlock smirks proudly.

“Do people normally assume you’re the killer?”

“Now and again, yes. A perfectly logical assumption,” Sherlock bounces up onto the seat to rest on his heels.

John takes the armchair opposite Sherlock, and Hamish abandons his book in favour of wandering through to lean on the back of John’s chair, listening carefully.

“How’d you find it?” John says.

“By looking, it was rather simple. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

“You got all that just because you knew it would be pink? Why didn’t I think of that…?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

John frowns.

“Oh no don’t take it like that, almost everyone is. Look, do you see what’s missing? Both of you.” He waves a hand vaguely in John and Hamish’s direction. When he’s met with a pair of blank stares, he continues, “her _phone_. We know she had one, you just texted it. She had a string of lovers and was careful about it; she would never have left it at home. The question is; where is it now?” He smirks, “the killer.”

John’s jaw drops slightly, “did I just text a murderer?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by John’s ringtone. The three heads snap towards it, John and Hamish warily turning to Sherlock.

“It’s a few hours after his last victim, who has now texted him. If the phone had been lost, that text would have been ignored, but the murderer,” Sherlock snaps the case shut, “would _panic_.”

Sherlock stands and shrugs his coat on.

“Have you even been to the police?” John says from his armchair.

Sherlock scoffs, “four people are dead, there’s no time.”

“Then why are you _talking to me_?”

“Mrs Hudson took my skull,” Sherlock pouts, tying his scarf, “and she banned me from telling Hamish anything too detailed about my cases. Says it’s a bad influence on him.” Hamish mirrors his father’s pout.

John sighs, “so basically, I’m filling in for your skull?”

“Relax, you’re doing fine.” He rearranges his collar, “well, you could just sit there and watch telly, but I quite like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud, and the skull attracts attention so.”

“Why doesn’t Hamish go with you?”

“Hamish has homework to do,” Sherlock scowls, “and by the time I return he had best be in bed.”

“But dad,” Hamish is met with a glare from Sherlock. He huffs, “fine, but I need you to check it for me when you get home.”

“Of course,” Sherlock turns back to John, “problem?”

“Yeah, Sergeant Donovan said you get off on this. Do I really want to get involved?”

Sherlock smirks, “I said dangerous, and yet here you are.” He sweeps gracefully from the room, quickly patting Hamish’s hair as he brushes past.

“Dammit,” John grumbles, stumbling to his feet.

Hamish giggles and runs to the window to watch the pair disappear down the street. He presses his face against the glass until he can’t see them anymore and steps back to see a small patch of condensation from his breath. He draws a little smiley face with his finger and returns to the kitchen table to finish his book.


	6. Angelo's

Sherlock and John catch a cab to Northumberland Street. After throwing some money at the driver, Sherlock begins striding down the street, John limping a few steps behind.

John pulls his jacket sleeves over his hands against the chill evening air, “so, where are we going?”

“Northumberland Street, it’s just around the corner,” Sherlock answers, manoeuvring himself and John around the small crowds gathering outside restaurants.

“You think the killer’ll be stupid enough to go there?”

Sherlock laughs, “no, I think he’ll be brilliant enough. These ones are always good, they’re so desperate to get caught. They want appreciation, applause and the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience.”

Sherlock continues with his long strides, while John momentarily falters, unsure of what he’s managed to get himself into. Sherlock continues, “This is his hunting ground. Now we know his victims were abducted, this changes everything. They all disappeared from busy streets but no one saw them go. Think!” Sherlock scowls at himself and keeps walking, “they were all taken from the middle of a crowd.”

“How?” John asks, still struggling to catch up.

“Haven’t the faintest. Hungry?” Sherlock suddenly darts off to the side and across the road, narrowly missing a car.

They go to a restaurant with a sign saying ‘Angelo’s’. Sherlock mumbles a greeting of “Billy,” to the waiter at the door and sits at a table looking through the window. He motions for John to sit and drops his coat on the chair beside him.

Sherlock nods his head towards the window, “twenty two Northumberland Street.”

“Right,” John mumbles, settling into the window seat and resting his cane beside him.

A bearded man appears from the back of the restaurant, making a beeline for their table. When he reaches them he claps a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “good to see you. Anything on the menu, on the house, for you and your date.”

“I’m not—“ John starts, Sherlock interrupts him.

“Do you want to eat?”

The man grins at them both in turn, “this man got me off a murder charge. He cleared my name.”

“I cleared it a bit.”

“If not for this man, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison.”

He ignores him, “I’ll get a candle for the table, more romantic.”

John grumbles under his breath, _I’m not his date._

Sherlock passes the menu over to John, “eat.”

John looks over the menu, “you know, in the real world, people don’t have arch enemies.”

“How dull,” Sherlock grunts, not taking his eyes off the window, “what do people have then? In their real lives?”

Sherlock finally turns. John swallows, find it difficult to speak with Sherlock’s penetrating gaze fully on him, “um, friends, people they know, people they like, girlfriends, boyfriends.”

“Dull.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dull,” Sherlock repeats.

“So, you don’t have a girlfriend, after, um,” John trails off.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, “no.”

“Alright, do you have a boyfriend then? I know you have Hamish but,” he shrugs.

Sherlock sighs, “I’ve had one relationship since Hamish’s mother died and that ended in disaster,” he resumes staring through the window, “Hamish hated Victor, and Victor hated Hamish,” he glances across to John again, “you should know that I’ve considered myself married to my work since.”

“I wasn’t… No, I wasn’t asking. I’m just saying, you’re unattached, like me. It’s all _fine_ ,” John smiles and goes to eat a mouthful of pasta that had appeared in front of him. He thinks he sees Sherlock’s cheeks turn faintly pink, but puts down to the candle and lighting of the restaurant.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, until he leans forward on his seat, “there, look. A taxi. Stopped and no one getting in or out. But why?” He smiles, “oh that’s clever. Is it? Why is it clever?” He stands and picks up his coat in one fluid motion, and is through the door before John can finish his mouthful of pasta. John groans and picks up his coat, following Sherlock out onto the street.

As the door swings shut the taxi begins to pull away from the curb. Sherlock darts off the path to follow it, but ends up on the bonnet of an oncoming car. John mumbles a “sorry” to the driver and jogs after him.

Sherlock stops and watches the taxi turn a corner with a low growl from his throat. He rifles through his memory of the London A-Z as John comes to his side, “alternate route,” he whispers, “come on, John!” He sets off at a sprint again, knowing that John would be just a few strides behind him.

Sherlock leads him up and down stairways, over fences and eventually onto a rooftop where, thanks to his longer legs, he jumps across an alleyway onto the next building. John hesitates, almost losing his footing, but takes a few steps back and manages to clear it with a running jump. They reach the street a second after the taxi, which turns another corner, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.

“This way, John!” He shouts, taking off again.

John obediently follows again, dashing in an out of alleys and down dark streets.

Eventually they emerge from an alleyway and Sherlock jumps straight into the road and onto the taxi’s bonnet, shouting, “police!”

He pulls the door open and eyes the passenger. His face falls, “no. Teeth, tan, Californian? LA, Santa Monica, just arrived.”

“How?” John asks, out of breath.

“The luggage,” Sherlock points to the tag on the man’s suitcase, “probably your first trip to London? Judging by the route the cabbie was taking you.” He pauses for a second before grinning, “welcome to London!”

“Are you guys the police?” The man says from his seat.

Sherlock holds up a badge, “yeah. Everything alright?”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock nods and swoops away from the taxi back onto the street.

John steps forward, “any problems, just let us know!” He closes the door and walks to where Sherlock is waiting for him, “not the murderer?”

“No, not the murderer.”

“Good alibi,” John looks at Sherlock’s hand, “wait, what is this?” He takes the badge from him, “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“I pickpocket him when he’s annoying.” John laughs. “You can have that one; I have plenty more at the flat.”

Sherlock glances over to the taxi, motionless on the street. The man is standing next to it talking to a street warden and pointing.

Sherlock smirks, “got your breath back?”

“Ready when you are.”

They take off at the same sprinting speed down an alleyway.

***

The door of 221 slams shut, John and Sherlock shrug their coats off and hang them on the bannister of the stairs and lean heavily against the wall, breathing heavily.

“That… was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John gasps.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John laughs, a loud belly laugh that makes Sherlock’s mouth tug up at the corners. He looks at John’s face and sees his cheeks still faintly pink from their run. The next thing Sherlock realises is he is stood directly in front of, and very close to, John. He rests a hand on John’s waist and slowly moves his head forward until his lips are gently pressed against John’s.

John freezes for a second, before putting a little more force into the kiss and raising his hands to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders and neck.

Sherlock pulls away a few centimetres, not meeting John’s eye, mumbling, “I’m sorry, are you okay with this? I don’t want to—“

“Sherlock,” John interrupts, “shut up,” he says, pulling Sherlock back down for a deeper, open-mouthed kiss. 

Sherlock takes this as an invitation, pulling John closer and pushing his knee in between John’s legs. He feels John thread his fingers through his hair, pulling gently. Sherlock slowly lowers his hands to grab two hands of John’s backside. They moan quietly into each other’s mouths, conscious of Mrs Hudson being just next door.

“Your limp is psychosomatic,” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips when John wraps a leg around one of Sherlock’s. He gently nudges John’s nose with his own.

“Says who?” John replies, voice unusually deep. He tries to duck his head to attack Sherlock’s throat, but Sherlock quickly steps away and runs his hands down the front of his shirt, eliciting a disgruntled noise from John.

“Says the man at the door,” he smirks.

A loud knock echoes through the hall. John’s eyes snap to Sherlock’s, who in return smirks. He goes to open the door and is greeted by Angelo, the man he met at the restaurant earlier, holding his cane.

“Sherlock texted saying you might need this.”

John puffs out a laugh and takes it, “thank you. Really, thank you.” He closes the door and does a quick, skipping run back to Sherlock. Sherlock smiles down at John, who presses his face against Sherlock’s neck and wraps an arm around his shoulder, mumbling, “thank you.”

Sherlock initially stiffens, but wraps his arms around John’s waist and squeezes him tightly until they’re interrupted by Mrs Hudson’s voice from the door of her flat, “boys?”

They jump apart as Mrs Hudson and Hamish appear. Hamish looks between Sherlock and John, a knowing smile spreading across his lips. John coughs guiltily.

“What have you done, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson says, keeping a tight grip on Hamish’s shoulder. The two men share a look and make a beeline for the stairs. 


	7. Drugs Bust

Sherlock enters the living room first to see DI Lestrade lounging in the angular armchair, watching the police officers swarming the flat.

“What the hell is this?” Sherlock snaps as John and Hamish follow close behind.

Lestrade smirks, “well, we knew you’d find the case.”

“Well, _you_ can’t just break into my flat,” Sherlock frowns, “what the hell is this?”

Lestrade considers his answer for a moment, “it’s a drugs bust!”

John laughs, “this guy? A junkie? I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all night and not find anything.”

Sherlock steps into John’s space, “you might want to shut up now, John.”

A moment passes, “you?” John says finally, shifting uncomfortably, he may have just been swapping spit with the man, but the penetrating stare still makes him step backwards.

“Shut up.” Sherlock turns back to Lestrade, “I’m not your sniffer dog, Lestrade.”

“No,” he points to the kitchen, “Anderson is my sniffer dog.”

“ _Anderson?_ What are you doing here?”

Anderson steps around the corner and waves, “I volunteered.”

Lestrade shuffles back into the chair, “they’re not all strictly on the drug squad, but they’re very keen. Now, you can take Hamish back downstairs and let us get back to work, or you can hand over the case, which would be marvellous.”

Sally leans around the corner holding a jar, “are these human eyes?”

“Hey!” Hamish shouts, “those are an experiment, put them back!”

“Kid, they were in the microwave.”

“So?” He says petulantly, throwing himself down onto the sofa and folding his arms.

Sherlock groans, “and now thanks to your incompetent officers I have to deal with a grumpy nine year old for the rest of the evening.” Sherlock scoffs disbelievingly, “you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me into helping you?”

Lestrade stands, “it’s not pretend if we find anything,” he says quietly.

“I am _clean_.”

“What about your flat?” He says a little louder.

“Hamish doesn’t even let me smoke,” Sherlock says, unbuttoning his sleeve and showing the nicotine patch, “last time I bought a box he flushed them. You think I could hide anything _recreational_ from him? Think again, he’d rather not be in Mycroft’s care like last time.”

Lestrade unbuttons his own sleeve, revealing his nicotine patch, “I don’t smoke either. Let’s work together, alright?”

Sherlock grumbles under his breath and gracefully drops onto the sofa beside Hamish, mirroring his body language.

Lestrade sighs, “I’m dealing with a child. We found Rachel. She was Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

“Never mind that,” Anderson butts in, “you said the killer would have the case, and oh look, we just found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.”

“I’m not a psychopath, I’m a high functioning sociopath. Do your research,” Sherlock bites, turning to Lestrade, “I need to question her, can you bring Rachel in?”

“She’s dead,” Lestrade says. The word _excellent_ forms on Sherlock’s lips as he leans forward, but Lestrade speaks again, “she’s been dead for fourteen years. She was Wilson’s still born daughter.”

“Then why would she..?” Sherlock stands and begins pacing, “she thought of her daughter in her last moments, why would she still be upset?”

A cold silence falls over the room.

“Not good?” He asks, directed at Hamish and John, who slowly shake their heads. He grumbles and steps into John’s space again, “but think. If you’d been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?”

“Please God, let me live,” John deadpans.

“Use your imagination.”

John swallows thickly, “I don’t have to.”

Sherlock bites his lip and awkwardly dances from one foot to the other, “but if you were really clever. She was trying to tell us something.” He begins pacing again and ruffling his hair in thought.

“Sherlock, your taxi’s here. Is the doorbell not working?” Mrs Hudson appears at the door, “what’s going on? Oh, they’re making such a mess,” she tuts, going to rest a hand on Hamish’s shoulder.

Sherlock dismisses her with a wave of his hand, “I didn’t order one, go away.”

John throws a glare at Sherlock and leans over, “it’s a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson.”

She gasps, “but they’re just herbal soothers for my hip.”

“Shut up, everybody!” Sherlock suddenly bursts from the centre of the room, “nobody think, nobody move, nobody _breathe_. Anderson face the other way, you’re putting me off.”

Anderson begins to form an insult, but Lestrade cuts in, “your back, now, please.”

Sherlock twirls, pulling at his hair in deep thought.

“Your taxi,” Mrs Hudson tries again, stepping into the centre of the room.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock snaps. She scurries away down the stairs. Sherlock sighs a laugh, “oh, oh! She’s clever than you lot and she’s dead!”

“Dad,” Hamish warns quietly.

Sherlock ignores him and laughs again, “she didn’t lose her phone, she planted it on the killer.” He’s met with silence, “don’t you see? Rachel!”

The room continues to stare at him until he sighs, “John, the label on the luggage. There should be an email address.”

John frowns and leans over to read it as Sherlock opens his laptop, “jennie dot pink at me phone dot org dot uk,” he says.

Sherlock’s fingers fly over the laptop keyboard, “out her email in here and altogether now, the password is—” he dramatically clicks the Enter button on the laptop, and soon Jennifer Wilson’s profile and email account have flashed up. Sherlock smiles triumphantly.

Anderson snorts, “so we can read her email, so what?”

“Don’t talk out loud Anderson, you’ll lower the IQ of the whole street,” Sherlock snaps not taking his eyes from the screen, “it’s a smart phone, it’s got a GPS.”

Lestrade begins to argue how unlikely it would be that the killer had kept the phone, but John turns and smiles, explaining the text and phone call they had received.

Mrs Hudson re-enters the room, “your taxi!”

Sherlock spins on the balls of his feet and swoops to the door, “isn’t it time for your evening soother, Mrs Husdon?” He hisses.

John raises an eyebrow and turns back to the laptop, “Sherlock? The phone, it’s here. On Baker Street.”

“How?” Sherlock mumbles, looking at the floor.

Lestrade pulls a face, “maybe you dropped it when you brought the case here?”

Sherlock stands in the centre of the room, his mind rushing to every conclusion possible. The voices of police officers are reduced to a dull mumbling in his ears. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by his phone vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out he’s met with the message, _COME WITH ME_ , from an unknown number. He faces the door and sees the retreating back of a shadowed man.

He feels a light tug on his sleeve. Looking down, he’s met with a concerned pair of silver eyes, “you okay?”

“Fine,” Sherlock says, looking back at the door, “I’m just going to get some fresh air, back in a minute.”

He mindlessly pats Hamish’s head and starts down the stairs, shrugging his coat on.

John sighs, “fresh air? Now?” John frowns, “Hamish, why don’t you go get ready for bed? Maybe read a book or something? They’re going to be here a while, so you might as well.”

“I can’t go to bed until Lestrade’s Yarders are gone,” he huffs, throwing a dirty look towards Lestrade, “they make too much noise for me to be able to sleep, and I need to make sure they don’t mess up any of our stuff.” This time the glare is shot in Sally’s direction.

“Alright, alright,” John holds his hands up in a peace gesture, “go get Sherlock, would you? We need his help,” he asks. Hamish nods sulkily and, in a way only mastered by the Holmes family, gracefully stomps down the stairs.

When he gets to the door he sees Sherlock having a discussion with a cab driver.

“Dad?”


	8. The Cabbie

“I didn’t order a taxi,” Sherlock says, hands stuffed in his pockets.

The driver smirks, “doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

Sherlock returns the smile, “it was you.”

“I’m just the back of an ‘ead, no one ever thinks about the cabbie. Being invisible is a great advantage for a serial killer.”

Sherlock steps forward, “is this a confession?”

The man looks up at the windows of 221b, “if you call the coppers, I won’t run. They can take me down, promise.” He pauses, “but you’ll never get to know how I did it.”

“Did what?”

He cocks his head to the side and smirks again, “I didn’t kill those four people. I talked to them,” he admits, “but they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, you’ll never find out what I said.”

They stand in silence, surrounded by the sound of cars passing by, when a mousey, “Dad?” comes from the doorway.

Sherlock spins, eyebrows pulled together, “Hamish, go back inside,” he says, a hint of steel in his voice.

Hamish flinches, not used to Sherlock using this voice on him. He doesn’t move, his hand grips at the door frame, unsure whether or not to turn back.

“Nah,” the cabbie says. He looks towards the small boy in the doorway, “if you want to understand, come with me.” He nods towards Hamish, “bring him too.” He climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door.

Hamish looks up at Sherlock, who holds his hand out for him and nods.

“I’ll keep you safe, I will not allow anything to happen to you,” Sherlock whispers, taking Hamish’s small hand in his and crouching, “I didn’t let Victor hurt you, did I? So you have to trust me, I’m not going to let him do anything to you.”

Hamish nods slowly.

Sherlock picks up a pair of battered trainers from beside the door, “put these on.”

Hamish quickly pulls them on and is guided into the back seat of the cab.

* * *

 

John stands at the window, his mobile held to his ear, calling Jennifer Wilson’s phone. He watches Sherlock guide Hamish into the cab, and it glides away from the curb. He frowns, “Sherlock just got in a cab. He took Hamish with him. They drove off.”

Sally pulls a face, “told you so. We’re wasting our time, he left _again._ ”

John looks to Lestrade, “the phone is still ringing. He isn’t picking up.”

“It’s not here then?”

John shrugs when it goes to voicemail and cancels the call. He opens the laptop and looks at the map again.

“Does it matter?” Sally says, having returned from gathering the officers into the kitchen, “he’s a lunatic who will always let you down, and you’re wasting all of our time.”

Lestrade sighs, “okay, we’re done here. Let’s go.”

The Scotland Yard officers file out, some throwing distasteful looks at John, as though he’s the one to blame for their overtime.

“Why’d he have to leave?” Lestrade sighs.

John shrugs, “you know him better than I do.”

“I’ve known him for five years, and no I don’t,” he straightens his collar, “I put up with him because I’m desperate.”

John stands still, watching him leave through the corner of his eye. Lestrade turns back when he reaches the door, “Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day if we’re lucky, he might be a good one. Even if only for Hamish. He’s a sweet kid, he needs stability in his life.”

He smiles sadly and follows the officers down the stairs, leaving John alone.

* * *

 

“How did you find me?” Sherlock asks, meeting the cabbie’s eye in the rear view mirror.

He smirks, “I recognised you, Mr Holmes. When you were chasing my cab. Your fan, they warned me about you.”

Hamish’s head snaps up, concerned, “you chased him?”

Sherlock quickly shushes him, “my fan? Who would notice me?”

“Got yourself a fan,” the cabbie chuckles, “and that’s all you’re gonna know. _In this lifetime._ ”

Sherlock sees Hamish’s eyes widen, but he gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

The cab pulls up outside two large buildings. The cabbie climbs out and holds open the passenger door, a dark look on his smiling face.

“Where are we?” Sherlock asks nonchalantly.

“You know every street in London.”

He sighs, “why are we here?”

“It’s open,” the driver shrugs, “cleaners are in. Advantage of being a cab driver, always know a good place for a murder.”

Sherlock pulls a face, “and you just walk your victims in?”

The cabbie lifts his arm, holding a gun aimed towards Sherlock. Sherlock moves in front of Hamish, his body language screaming, _protect_ , his voice saying, “dull. You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

“Don’t worry; it’s much better than that.” He tucks the gun away, “don’t need this, you’ll follow me.”

Sherlock sighs and pats Hamish’s knee before climbing out of the taxi. Hamish goes to follow, but the driver slams the door shut, closely missing Sherlock’s coat.

“I’ll drop him off later,” the driver smiles, “after I’ve talked to him too, though no one will believe a kid.” He locks the doors and moves to guide Sherlock into the right building.

“Dad?” Hamish bangs his fist against the window twice and tries the door, but Sherlock slowly shakes his head as if to say, _I’ll deal with this._ Hamish visibly deflates and slumps against the seat, curling in on himself and hugging his knees.

* * *

 

John tidies up as much as he can. He may not have decided whether or not to move in, but the sight of Sherlock’s things strewn about so carelessly makes him uncomfortable. He’s just looking over the scratches on his cane when he hears Sherlock’s laptop begin to beep. He picks it up, still on the mephone website, and the map pops up.

He swears under his breath and runs down the stairs for a taxi.

He gives the driver the address of the college and leaps into the seat, pulling out his phone. He calls Scotland Yard, asking for Detective Inspector Lestrade. Even his claims of an emergency take a while to get through, but eventually he reports the location as the cab pulls up outside the school, he groans, _two identical buildings, just my luck._

He shouts a quick, “thank you!” to the driver and throws a few notes his way before climbing out to check the parked cab. He sees a child curled up on the back seat. Hamish’s head snaps up when John taps on the window. His eyes are rimmed red, “John?”

John quickly decides what to do, “hold on,” he shouts, tapping the glass again, “move to the other side of the seat, Hamish, and cover your eyes.”

Hamish does as he’s told, shuffling backwards against the opposite door and pulling his jumper up and over his face.

John plants his feet and braces himself to drive his elbow through the window. It takes two attempts, but finally the glass shatters onto the seat.

“Quickly,” John says, motioning for Hamish to come forward, “but be careful, Sherlock would never forgive me if you hurt yourself after all this.” Hamish crawls across the seat and sticks his arms out. John hauls him through the window, avoiding the shards of glass, “are you alright?”

He nods.

“Did you see which building they went into?” John says.

“No, sorry.”

John guides Hamish to a seat in the reception area of one of the buildings, “it’s okay, nothing to apologise for. Stay here. I’ll find Sherlock and then we’ll go home, alright?” He takes off his coat and drapes it around Hamish’s shoulders. It’s far too big and all but drowns him, but he snuggles into the chair and pulls the coat tightly around himself.

“Hurry,” Hamish swallows thickly, “it didn't look good. The man had a gun.”

John visibly pales, “stay.” He takes off at a sprint, checking his belt for his own gun; _I hope this is the right building._


	9. Fifty Fifty

He walks Sherlock through the winding corridors of the school, ignoring every door. Eventually he deems one door acceptable, holding it open and motioning for Sherlock to enter. He flicks on a light to reveal a science classroom.

“What do you think? Suitable place to die?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, “I’m not going to die.”

The cabbie smirks, “shall we talk?” He motions to a desk and pair of chairs, pulling one out and settling into it, back straight. Sherlock sits opposite, slouching back with his hands in his lap.

“Risky, wasn’t it? Took me, and my son, from under the noses of half of Scotland Yard. They aren’t that bad at their jobs, and Mrs Hudson is also one to remember a face.”

“Nah. Call that a risk? This is a risk,” the cabbie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small container holding a pill. Sherlock pulls a face.

“You don’t get it yet, do you? Watch,” another container is pulled from his pocket and placed next to the first, also holding one pill. He smiles, “didn’t expect that did you?  Look at you, Sherlock Holmes. Your fan told me about your website, he-“

“My fan?”

The cabbie ignores him.

“You are a proper genius, aren’t you? The Science of Deduction. Now that is proper thinking.” Sherlock shifts, the cabbie continues, “why can’t people just think?”

“I see,” Sherlock says, “you’re a proper genius too.” He pauses, “two bottles.”

The cabbie explains his game, one pill you live, the other you die. _Chess, 50/50 chance._ He tells him about his four other victims, how he and they had both taken a pill, he’d been lucky to win each time. Keeping his chess analogy, the cabbie moves one bottle across the table, “was that a bluff? A double bluff? Or a triple bluff?”

“Stop it. It’s a fifty fifty chance.”

The cabbie smirks knowingly, “four people in a row. It’s not chance, it’s luck. People think they know how I think, but they don’t. They’re all so stupid, even you.”

Sherlock frowns and leans forward on the table, “you are wasted as a cabbie.”

He narrows his eyes at Sherlock, “a proper genius. Now come on, play the game.”

“I am playing,” Sherlock pauses, “what are you going to do with him? Were I to choose the wrong bottle.”

“I’ll talk to him too; then drop him back off at your flat. If he runs to tell the coppers they won’t believe him,” he says, smugness lacing his voice, “he’s a kid. The police never listen to kids. Their stories are all fairy tales. And I suppose that makes me the villain.”

“You obviously misunderstand. Hamish may be nine years old physically, but mentally he’s far beyond that. The police will take him very seriously,” Sherlock deadpans, “he’s already solved one or two cases himself. The police trust him.” He hisses out the last few words.

The cabbie smirks, “we’ll see about that. Time to play.”

“I _am_ playing.” Sherlock repeats, “family issues,” he says, “the picture of the children in your cab. Their mother is cut out of the photo, an estranged father then. Ah. When did they tell you?”

The cabbie frowns.

“Three years ago? That you’re a dead man walking.”

“Aneurism,” he explains, pointing to his head, “I’ve outlived four people Mr Holmes,” he hisses.

“No. They didn’t die just because you’re bitter,” Sherlock narrows his eyes, “bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator, a feeling I know well. This is about your children.”

“Then you’ll understand my motives, won’t you? When I die they won’t get much. I have a sponsor. For every life I take money goes to my kids.”

When Sherlock remains silent, he continues, “You’re not the only one who enjoys a good murder. There’s a name no one speaks, and I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter. Choose.”

“What if I don’t choose? I could walk out of here, pick up my son and be home for supper.”

The cabbie sighs and brings out the gun again, “fifty fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Which has the better odds for seeing your son again?”

“The gun, please,” Sherlock deadpans, his face stony.

A tense few seconds pass. The cabbie pulls the trigger, making the end of the gun produce a small dancing flame. Sherlock smirks.

“Worked on the rest of ‘em,” the cabbie admits.

“I know a real gun when I see one. This has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case.” Sherlock smiles and stands, quickly brushing past the driver. He pauses with his hand on the door when the cabbie speaks again.

“Which one would you have picked? Just so I know if I could have beaten you or not.”

Sherlock turns, a dangerous look in his eye. He swipes one of the bottles and holds it up to the light. He unscrews the lid and drops the unassuming pill onto his palm, eyeing it closely.

“Ah” the cabbie says, “very interesting. What do you say? How about we take our medicine? Were you clever enough to beat me?”

\---------

John frantically runs through the dark corridors, throwing open every unlocked door.

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock!”

He swears under his breath when he bursts into another empty room. He’s just about to slam the door shut again when he spots movement in the adjacent room through the window.

“ _Sherlock_!”

Breathing deeply, he steadies himself and reaches to his belt, raises his left arm and-

**_Bang._ **


	10. Family

Sherlock raises his hand, ready to put the pill between his teeth when a shot rings out and the cabbie falls to the floor, a splash of red spreading across his shoulder. He turns to see a neat bullet hole in the window, directly in line with where the cabbie had been it. The room opposite has barely any light, but Sherlock sees a retreating body dashing from the room, _strong moral value_ , he thinks.

The cabbie splutters, attracting Sherlock’s attention once more.

He marches back to him and crouches, “was I right?” He demands. The cabbie stays frustratingly silent, Sherlock throws his pill away in anger, “you’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. My fan. Give me a name.”

“No,” he coughs.

“A name,” Sherlock snarls, pressing the toe of his shoe against the cabbie’s wound, “ _now_.”

He cries out in pain, “ _Moriarty_.”

Sherlock watches the man go limp and steps back, rolling the name around his mouth.

_Moriarty._

After a moment he leaves the classroom, collar upturned and hands shoved into his pockets. He marches through the corridors, remembering the way he’d been brought in. His head snaps up upon hearing his name.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade jogs the few remaining metres, “what have I told you about leaving in the middle of a drugs bust? It just makes you look guilty.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and continues walking, “the cabbie is dead. Someone shot him.”

“Right,” Lestrade sighs rubbing his hand over his face and following Sherlock.

“Where is Hamish? He came with me,” Sherlock asks as they leave the school, “he was left inside the taxi.”

“The glass was smashed. There was no one in there, we thought he went in with you,” Lestrade shrugs.

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he looks around his surroundings as he’s herded to an open ambulance. He narrows his eyes in thought and minutely flinches when someone drapes an orange blanket around his shoulders.

Lestrade reappears by his side, already looking bored with the ordeal.

“Why have they given me this blanket?”

“It’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock says, unimpressed.

Lestrade rolls his eyes again, “our shooter must have cleared off before we got here. No sign of him. Got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock gives him a look.

Sighing, Lestrade pulls out a small notebook, “alright, give me.”

Sherlock takes a breath and begins how the shooter had been a crack shot and well versed with their weapon. He explains that he can’t have just been a marksman, he must have been a fighter, someone acclimatised to violence. Their hand hadn’t shaken at all. “…you’re looking for a man with a possible history of military service and-“ he trails off, spotting John and Hamish just outside the police tape, both innocently looking around at the flashing lights. Hamish is wearing John’s coat over the top of his jumper and they’re mumbling to each other, seemingly ignoring the police cars and flashing lights.

“Ignore me.”

Lestrade blinks, “what?”

“Ignore everything I just said, it was the shock talking,” Sherlock tears his eyes away from his son and possible flatmate. He moves to start towards them but Lestrade intercepts.

“Oi, where are you going?”

“What now? I’m in shock, look I’ve got a blanket. I need to,” he pauses, “discuss the rent and get Hamish home, he has school tomorrow. I just caught you a serial killer, more or less.”

“Fine, come in tomorrow.”

Sherlock nods. He shrugs of the blanket and throws it into a police car, ducking under the police tape.

“Sher—” John starts, but Sherlock puts a hand around the back of John’s head and pulls him in for a deep kiss.

Hamish makes a quiet choking noise and sticks out his tongue.

“You’d best get the powder burns out of your fingers,” Sherlock rumbles against John’s lips. He smiles, “good shot.”

John chuckles, avoiding the topic, “what happened to ‘married to my work’?”

“I’m sure it won’t mind sharing me with you.”

John laughs as Sherlock turns to Hamish.

“Are you alright?”

Hamish nods and presses his lips together.

Sherlock sighs, “you’re getting far too big for this but, come here.” He crouches down, which Hamish takes as an invitation to climb on his back, loosely wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock stands, arms tucked under Hamish’s legs in an awkward piggy back, “definitely too big,” he grunts.

Hamish giggles and clings tighter, which makes Sherlock laugh quietly.

“Come on you two, you can’t giggle. It’s a crime scene.”

Sherlock looks to John fondly, “dinner?”

“Starving.”

“There’s a good Chinese near Baker Street we often go to-”

John interrupts him and stops walking, he nods towards the suited man with the umbrella he had met earlier, who seemed to have gained access to the crime scene, “Sherlock, that’s the man.”

Hamish pulls on Sherlock’s ear and hisses, “dad. Enemy at one o’ clock.”

Sherlock frowns and begins walking towards him.

“So, another case cracked,” the man says, smiling at them.

“What are you doing here?”

“As ever, I’m concerned about you both, and your new,” he glances at John, “friend. Has it ever occurred to you that we belong on the same side, Sherlock?”

“Oddly enough, no.”

“This petty feud between us is simply childish, people will suffer. And you know how much it always upset mummy.”

John whips his head up and turns his full attention to the man, Sherlock and then Hamish in turn. Sherlock and the man appear to be staring each other down, while Hamish watches over Sherlock’s shoulder, bored.

“No wait, mummy? Who’s mummy?”

“Grandmother,” Hamish grumbles, pulling on Sherlock’s curls, “uncle Mycroft.” He says in greeting.

“This is your brother?” John asks, “so he’s not, I don’t know, criminal mastermind?”       

Sherlock smiles in amusement “close enough. He is the British Government, when he’s not busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.”

Mycroft sighs in the way that only elder siblings have mastered.

“Evening, Mycroft,” Sherlock turns, hitching Hamish higher up and begins walking down the street, away from the police cars.

John begins to follow, but stops and calls back, “so when you say you’re concerned about them, you actually are concerned?”

“Yes, of course.”

John nods slowly, “okay.”

He turns and jogs to catch up with Sherlock.

“Your real injury,” Hamish says, noticing his presence, “your shoulder?”

John nods, “yes. That’s right, I-“

“The left?” Sherlock says.

John laughs, “lucky guess.”

“We never guess, John,” Sherlock smirks.

“Yes, you do,” John laughs, “what are you so happy about anyway?”

“Moriarty.”

“What’s a Moriarty?”

“No idea.”

\---------------------------

Dinner passes uneventfully, and in their taxi ride home Hamish leans against John’s side, full and quietly nodding off. Sherlock carries him into the flat and tucks him into the bed Mrs Hudson had set up in the upstairs bedroom and perches on the edge, gently running his fingers through the small boy’s hair. John leans against the doorframe.

“A few years ago,” Sherlock says quietly, “I accidentally overdosed. I was in hospital for a while, and then I checked myself into a rehabilitation clinic. I’d been on and off the various drugs since I first discovered them as a teenager. Hamish’s mother, Mary, tried to get me off them. It worked for a while,” Sherlock gently twists one of Hamish’s curls around his finger, “she liked to think she’d _cured_ me, and I let her. After she died I spiralled out of control and suddenly realised Hamish would not be allowed to stay with me if I continued the way I was. He lived with Mycroft while I was there.”

“But you’re better now,” Hamish mumbles, not opening his eyes.

John smiles, “I thought you were asleep?”

“I am.” John and Sherlock share a look, but Hamish continues, “I didn’t like staying with Uncle Mycroft. He made me wear posh shirts and didn’t let me eat cake and nice things. You don’t make me do that.”

Hamish yawns and Sherlock stands, patting Hamish’s hip, “no I don’t. Before Mary I’d been in relationships with both men and woman, and just before rehab I was with a man called Victor,” Hamish grumbles under his breath, pulling his duvet tighter around himself, “he always thought he had to fight Hamish for my attention, and said a lot of… hurtful things to him.”

“He’s gone now though,” Hamish smiles sleepily, “and I prefer John anyway, he’s much nicer than anyone else we know. I want him to stay with us.”

Sherlock looks to John, who smiles gently.

“That is completely John’s decision to make, but I’m sure he’ll consider it. Go to sleep, you’ve had a long day,” Sherlock says gently, closing the door and motioning for John to go to the living room. Sherlock throws himself to sit on the sofa while John hovers with his hands in his pockets.

“Why did you take Hamish with you tonight? You could have left him with me.”

“How could I say no to a serial killer? He wanted both of us. I knew I would be able to get out of it and come home unscathed, Hamish too,” Sherlock presses his hands together and props his chin on them, “and if that failed I knew you would turn up eventually.”

“So this is what you do, put yourself in danger to prove you’re clever?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock smirks, “then, occasionally, yes.”

“Does Hamish always get involved?” John asks carefully.

“No,” Sherlock presses his lips together, “that was the second time something has happened to him directly. I won’t allow it to happen again.”

John shakes his head, “I’ve known you for one day and I’ve already killed a man for you.”

Sherlock swallows, “listen, if you don’t want to- I understand if-“

John moves forward to straddle Sherlock’s thighs and presses a gentle kiss to his lips, “I’ll start bringing my stuff over tomorrow,” he grins.

“Will we need the third bedroom?” Sherlock asks hopefully, dropping his hands to grip John’s hips.

John smiles and leans down to press another kiss to Sherlock’s temple, “we’ll see.” He untangles himself from Sherlock’s hands and stands, “goodnight Sherlock. See you tomorrow.” He leaves the room with a small wave of his hand.

Sherlock hears John’s footsteps become fainter until the front door shuts and the latch drops. He settles into the sofa and sighs happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it folks! At least for A Study in Pink. A few people requested that I continue this parent storyline with the rest of the stories, and since I was considering it anyway I will definitely be writing The Blind Banker and other episodes. I have some written already and will be updating to this series soon with a new story; "Smuggling Rings and Nightmares" following the events of TBB, Sherlock and John's developing relationship, and how Hamish fits in their lives.
> 
> In the meantime I've been writing some little one shots about the trio's lives together with stories that might not have fit in the canon events in the main fanfictions; "Living With Hamish Holmes" (I've really fallen in love with this kid, I've had a lot of fun writing him)
> 
> Thank you so much everyone who has been reading, I hope to update soon with the new story!
> 
> Edit: my friend Charly drew Sherlock and Hamish for me! charlyvonkarma.tumblr.com/post/53061540292

**Author's Note:**

> Come party on my [tumblr](http://sherlocksbuttonhole.tumblr.com/).


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